Isolophobia
by Azpidistra
Summary: Sequel to "Aviatophobia." A certain past returns to Paris, and threatens to destory three seperate relationships. (an AU fic). *COMPLETED*
1. A Tropical Contemplation

Author's Note: this story takes place seven months after "Aviatophobia" ended. As before, I do not own the four immortal men (Duncan MacLeod, Adam Pierson/Methos, Richie Ryan, Nick Wolfe) nor do I own Amanda or Joe Dawson. Teresa Ciela is mine. This is an AU fic, in which Richie Ryan still lives, but Joe Dawson was killed in a car crash Fall 2003.)----------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ------------------------  
  
April 11, 2005, 10 AM, the Bermudan Airport  
  
The warmth had seeped into his Immortal bones, and for the briefest moment, Adam Pierson contemplated remaining permanently in Bermuda. It had been seven months since he had left the Paris chill and autumnal rains, and perhaps more importantly, it had been seven months since he had left Duncan MacLeod.  
  
In Bermuda, he had no one to answer to. He had first contemplated escaping when he had received the news Joe Dawson had died. But distraught from his own anguish, and also disturbed from the anguish of his friends, he had remained in Paris. He and Duncan had first come together one month after the passing, both half-drunk from alcohol and despair, and come the following morning, neither had been disturbed to find the other one in Duncan's double bed. (Of course, (Methos noted with a remembered wry grin), Amanda had claimed that she had always known this would eventually happen, and to prove so, she collected bets from both Nick Wolfe and Richie Ryan, explaining they had had a tally for three years running now, as to when the highlander and the ancient one would finally come together. Joe Dawson had been in on it too).  
  
He had first bought the Bermudan property when the small island had first gained its independence from Great Britain, and whenever he needed a tropical escape, it was to there he went. He looked and sounded to be a native, with his British accent, and fair looks. No one paid him mind, and no one glanced his direction, unless he asked for the attention. He had no reason nor no one to explain his actions to, or his motives to. He could live without needing to worry if the boyscout approved or disproved, and without hearing whether or not Le Blues Bar had lost or gained revenue for the month, or for the year. He was free, truly free, and he had never been more miserable (at least, not in recent times).  
  
But for seven months, he had slept in a cold bed, and deep within, he hoped Duncan MacLeod had too. He was miserable without the Highlander.  
  
"Love is overrated, babes. We're better without it," drawled Teresa Ciela. An old friend of Methos, she had agreed to meet him over series of lunches for the times he spent in Bermuda. Distinctly Spanish (with her dark curly hair to her shoulders and olive complexion), the two Immortals had known one another through several centuries of history.  
  
"Love is misery, Reese. Misery is love. We should make bumper stickers."  
  
Teresa laughed, and inhaled a long drag of her cigarette. "Look at this way, should we make bumper stickers, we'd be rich, but only with money."  
  
With Teresa's words in mind, mentally cursing love, cursing humanity, and cursing the Highlander, he boarded the plane bound for Paris. 


	2. Deemed Saracastic Collection

Author's Note: Same disclaimer applies. I do not believe Paris University really does exist, but for the sake of the story, it now does. As stated before, this is an AU fic, in which Richie Ryan lives, and Joe Dawson was killed in a car crash. It is also the sequel to "Aviataphobia," and opens seven months after that story ends. (It is recommended you read that story first.) -------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -----------------------------------------------  
  
April 12, 2005, 8 AM, Paris, France, Apartment of Richie Ryan/the Paris Airport/Le Blues Bar  
  
Asher awoke before Richie. It had never been officially decided they would live together, but as Asher had had nowhere else to go, and for those first weeks of her time in Paris, she had had no money to rent or buy an apartment, she had stayed with Richie. The feelings between them had grown, and even after Asher had earned enough money in wages and tips from waitressing Le Blues Bar to buy her own apartment, she had no plans to live anywhere else.  
  
Smiling impishly at the sleeping Richie, she slipped into the shower, and washed her hair with some mint concoction she had bought on sale from the drugstore the previous week. She noted her hair had grown, and that soon she would need to have it cut. Pulling some clothes from the closet, and some food from the kitchen, she penned a short note to Richie, and sneaked out into the fresh morning air.  
  
It had rained the night before, and the morning smelt like spring. Stopping in somewhere to buy two coffees, she hailed a cab, and asked to be taken to the airport.  
  
Adam Pierson already waited at the gate when she arrived, and she handed him the second coffee. "Hopefully, it should still be warm. I still don't understand why you wanted me to come. We barely know one another."  
  
Adam took a grateful sip of the coffee, releasing a sigh of contentment. "Still warm. Actually, I had hoped to have Darcy come. But then, I realized she would forget. A sweet girl, but too forgetful for her own good sometimes. You seemed to be the logical next choice."  
  
"Great," grinned Asher, though the smile exhibited some caution. "I'm the infamous Adam Pierson's second choice. My goals in life are not complete, and I can die a happy woman."  
  
"Surely, you don't mean that? About dying, I mean?"  
  
"Not anymore, no," shrugged Asher. "Think we could move this conversation elsewhere, though? Being around so many planes, just can we leave, now, please?"  
  
Adam nodded, and took another large gulp of his coffee. "Thanks."  
  
"For the coffee?" Asher was puzzled, as it was only a cup of coffee, and not the best coffee at that. "Just seemed logical. I think Richie said once, you could live off coffee and beer."  
  
"Yes, well, but I meant, for meeting me."  
  
"You're welcome. To warn you, though, I took a taxi here. I never liked Richie's car."  
  
Despite the early morning hour, Adam grinned, and credited it to the open, and now less hostile, sarcasm of the young woman before him, and to the coffee. "Don't blame you. Although, I could have taken a taxi back myself, had I realized."  
  
"You could have," shrugged Asher. She finished her own coffee, and threw the paper cup into a nearby trash barrel. They had walked some as they had talked, and were now standing just outside the airport parking lot, desperately trying to signal for a taxi. Or rather, Asher was desperately signaling a coffee, as Adam simply stood watching, and sipping at his coffee. "You barely know me, you realize."  
  
Adam nodded, and tossed his empty cup into the same barrel. "I know, but I don't want MacLeod or Richie to know I am here yet. And, we already determined, that as sweet as Darcy is, she was not the woman for the job."  
  
"So, where do you go now?" asked Asher, as she let herself into a taxi, and slid across the leather seating.  
  
"I have a hotel room on the other side of town. I'll stay there for a few nights," he paused. "How is Duncan?"  
  
Asher side-glanced Adam Pierson. She did not know him well enough to judge the hidden context behind the simply asked question. He had left around the same time she had first arrived, and the little conversation they had had, had resulted in his lecturing her on the cons of drinking. She knew he had sent sporadic emails to Richie while gone (wherever he had gone, as the emails had never said), as she had read some sent over Richie's shoulder. And she knew from conversations that Adam Pierson had been a professor at Paris University, teaching Eastern European languages and history, and was as allusive as he was witful. Adam Pierson also registered to her senses as a fellow Immortal, although both Richie and Mac had sworn thousands of time over that Adam Pierson was mortal.  
  
Asher sighed, and listened to the directions Adam gave to the driver in rapid French. "He's well."  
  
Adam nodded, and if he felt hurt from the news, he did not show it. The taxi stopped at Le Blues Bar first, and Asher climbed from the taxi, retrieving her wallet to pay for her taxi ride, but Adam shook his head. From the stories she had hard, and the apparent contradiction this gesture showed, the surprise must have showed on her face, for Adam smiled slightly, and said: "Just don't tell anyone, ok?"  
  
"Of course not," agreed Asher. She was already halfway to the bar, when she noticed the taxi still waited. She pivoted on her left foot, and motioned for Adam to roll down the window, which he did. "If it helps matters, Mac has been miserable these past seven months."  
  
Adam only nodded, and re-closed the window. The taxi disappeared, leaving a trail of exhaust dust in its awake. Kicking consciously at it with her foot (still wearing the same black on black saddle shoes), Asher pivoted gain, and walked the remaining footsteps to the doorway of Le Blues Bar. The bells taped to the door signaled her arrival. Mac was already behind the counter, wiping it down with a damp cloth.  
  
"Here early, Asher. Everything ok?"  
  
"Peachy. Hunky-dory. If Richie comes in or calls, transfer it to the back room. I'll be working on the computers."  
  
"Sure," called Mac to the closed office door, for Asher had already slammed it behind her. Sighing, the highlander returned to the mundane task, and wondered if everything truly was as peachy as Asher had so sarcastically claimed. 


	3. Bemusement and Amusement

Author's Note: normal disclaimer applies.  
  
Those more computer illiterate than I will know XP3 is unreal, however I needed a computer software program, and Microsoft is what I am most familiar with. I figured, as this take place a couple years in the future, Bill Gates would probably invent something past XP, and hence the XP3.  
  
Also, for the sake of this story, I needed Mike to have a last name, and gave it as Ross. If this is not correct, it can be dealt with. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -------------------------------  
  
April 12, 2005, 9 AM, Le Blues Bar  
  
Darcy too arrived earlier than normal, and when the bells noted her departure, the chiseled face of Duncan MacLeod lost all its color. "Are you *two* trying to give me a heart attack this morning?"  
  
Darcy looked startled. She had worn her leather coat over a pair of khakis and a light blue tee, cut to show her stomach, and had the jacket and a small purse folded over her right arm. She called the leather her spring wear, and although Duncan tended to think of her style as inappropriate for the workplace, he had learned wisely not to comment. Darcy wore what she wanted, despite what he liked or did not like, said or not said.  
  
"I didn't do it, Mac. For once, I am innocent."  
  
Despite himself, Duncan's smile betrayed his amusement. "Of course you are," he mumbled.  
  
Bemused, Darcy shook her head, and stuffed her jacket and purse into the small cubbyholes she had deemed necessary, and had prodded Mike and Richie into building below the bar counter for employee use. She took an apron from the stash, released it from balled form, and tied it loosely around her waist. "Asher in yet?"  
  
"In back. The computers again. Said she wanted to upgrade them again."  
  
Darcy tilted her head slightly. "I thought you knew computers."  
  
Duncan frowned, and feigned interest in the box of unopened alcohol he had been stocking. "I could use some help, perhaps," he mentioned, desperate to change the subject.  
  
"Later. I'm not on until half past," and to the music of Duncan's sigh, she slipped into the back office. "You appear busy, Asher."  
  
Asher glanced up from the scream, and smiled at the sight of Darcy. Despite the short acquaintance, they had become close. For first, they had bonded over a shared mutual teasing of Duncan's expanse, but soon learned each had found a confidante in the other girl. It was usually Asher, who helped Darcy when it came to boy troubles, and Asher liked the simple idea of having a girl friend again.  
  
"Not really. I upgraded to Windows XP3. The software is still downloading. Just get in?"  
  
"Yeah. Mac wants me to work. I thought I could bother you instead."  
  
"Glad I could be of service," smiled Asher. "So, how'd the date go last night?"  
  
"I'm not sure," drawled Darcy, and Asher raised her eyebrow in question. "I mean, I think I may have fallen for him."  
  
"Heavens forbid," laughed Asher, and before Darcy could respond, the computer finished, and Asher for all her wit, sarcasm, and compassion, turned back to her first adoration. Content, to watch, and unhurt at the sudden lack of attention, she settled on the couch, and wondered what it would be like for a relationship to last.  
  
Richie wandered in soon after, grunted a salutation in Duncan's general direction, and with a quick sweep of the bar, he too ducked into the backroom. Seeing, Asher completely into her work, and oblivious to her surroundings, made him smile, and he went to stand behind her, and bent to kiss her head. Undisturbed, Asher reached for his hand, and leaned back against his stomach and chest, half-listening to the computer, and half- listening to the comments float between Richie and Darcy.  
  
All three missed the arrival of a young man, of mixed European and Asian blood in appearance. Decidedly mortal, and dressed in a three-piece business suit, he introduced himself to Duncan as Sam Clarke, and asked if he could speak to a Mike Ross. 


	4. A Small World After All

Author's Note: as usual, same disclaimer applies. Although, I would love to own Methos, and perhaps date the eternal grad student, Adam Pierson.  
  
to blackblade: Duncan's startledness last chapter was from Darcy arriving early to work. She never does. His reaction was more of a joke than most anything else.  
  
to SouthernChickie: I do edit, however in my defense, I do it very early or very late in the day. And exhaustion is the more enemy of the writer and editor. I will try my best though. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -----------------------------------------------  
  
April 12, 2005, 9:35 AM, Le Blues Bar  
  
Duncan MacLeod had not lived more than four centuries on pure adrenaline alone. He was as human as they came; both Joe and Methos had frequently told him so. He felt a mission to look out for the little people, to help mankind. He knew from first glance, this Sam Clarke was trouble. His judgement had sometimes been off (as he now believed he had pegged Methos completely wrong), but this time he just *knew.* Sam Clarke would bring trouble to the simple paradise he and his friends had hesitantly and slowly rebuilt since Joe Dawson's death.  
  
"This is Le Blues Bar, oui? Mike Ross does still work here?"  
  
"It is. He does. He's not here now, however. Too early for his shift to start," added Duncan. He did not mention that Mike worked his own hours, coming and leaving as it suited him. Nor did he mention that Mike often was there long before him, unloading stock, cheerfully whistling the 1812 Overture under his breath.  
  
"So, I see. Well, do me a favor then," he trailed, and confidently extended his hand, shifting his briefcase from, right hand to left. "My apologies. I did not catch your name, monsieur."  
  
His French was off, Duncan noted. Spoken flawlessly, but the accent was strange. Not American, but not quite something else either. "Duncan MacLeod."  
  
"Samuel Clarke. Sam. Tell Mike Ross I stopped in, please."  
  
"Of course. The nature of your business?"  
  
Sam laughed. A short, level sound, perfectly in sync with the three piece suit, and flat gray eyes. "I'm his lawyer."  
  
"I shall tell him you stopped in."  
  
"Merci, Monsieur MacLeod," he paused to make note of the pleasant atmosphere the bar alluded to. "Nice place you have here. I can understand why my client enjoys working here."  
  
He stepped carefully around the tables, and the small front stage, and the back booths, making no sound, and making no judgement to what Duncan could see.  
  
Silently, keeping his senses alert, Duncan returned to the steady movement of the stocking of the alcohol, and to the steady background music of typing keys. He noted when Darcy re-emerged, and gave no sense of surprise when she bent to take two bottles, and placed them on the shelves. "Who's the stranger?"  
  
"Friend of Mike's, it seems. A slippery type. I don't trust him."  
  
Darcy bit back a laugh, and bent to take two more bottles. From the backroom, came the smooth sound of Richie's laughter, and the delightful annoyance of Asher's followance, as she threatened both Richie and the computer.  
  
Sam Clarke made his full circle, and came again to stand before the counter. "When shall Monsieur Ross be in today?"  
  
"Shortly, I imagine. Could I relay a message? A phone number?"  
  
"No message. He has the phone number. I always keep the same room when I visit Paris," he paused again, to allow the words to sink. "This girl a waitress?"  
  
"I am," shot Darcy, straightening, hands on hips, eyes in defense.  
  
Sam laughed shortly again, and his eyes too lightened, but only for a moment. "Relax, sweetheart. I meant no offense." He turned his attention again to Duncan, oblivious to the steam escaping Darcy's ears. "You employ any other waitresses?"  
  
Duncan frowned. "The nature of the bar, and whom I do and do not employ does not seem to be your business, Monsieur Clarke."  
  
Sam laughed. Quick, demeaning, almost cruel. "Mike did warn me about you. My card, Monsieur MacLeod. Have a nice day," and with no further words, he ducked out, and the bells echoed his departure.  
  
Duncan MacLeod visibly paled at the sight of the white business card he held. Calmer, Darcy swore under her breath, and mentally Duncan echoed her sentiments. The card gave a number and address out of the States, out of New York. He worked from the same building Nick Wolfe did.  
  
A small, small world. 


	5. A Hesitant Admittance

Author's Note: raises eyebrow, nods, continues with story. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------  
  
April 12, 2005, 10 AM, Le Blues Bar  
  
Duncan had recovered enough to finish stocking the alcohol. There was still time before they officially opened to the public, and Darcy had disappeared into the kitchen to prep the day's menu. Richie wandered in, sprawled in the stool Methos usually claimed, and stated Asher had booted him.  
  
"Women do seem to have the higher power in the relationship," noted Duncan.  
  
Richie cocked his head. "Speaking from experience, Mac?"  
  
"Partly. Don't suppose I could get you to wipe the tables?"  
  
"Nope. Who was the guy who just left?"  
  
"Friend of Mike's."  
  
"Wish he had stayed. He could have amused Richie further perhaps," teased Asher, coming from the office, and ducking behind the counter to pour herself a glass of water, which she quickly swallowed. "Kept him from my hair."  
  
"Hey. I resent that," huffed Richie, but Duncan only offered a small smile. This had become normal in the weeks and months since Asher had relaxed and had opened herself to the possibility life and love offered. Bemused, Asher leaned across the counter to steal a kiss.  
  
"He have a name, Mac? Most people do usually," she asked.  
  
"Most, yes. Clarke, I think he said. Sam Clarke, maybe."  
  
"Say where he was from?" prodded Richie, but Asher only paled. He saw the color drain from her cheeks, and took her hand into his. It felt clammy to his touch. "Asher?"  
  
"Sam Clarke? Aloof? Dark hair, flat gray eyes?"  
  
"Sounds about right. You know him, Asher?" Duncan responded.  
  
Asher swore once, twice, thrice, quad times. It was the same word repeated: first in Italian, followed in German, and in French, and only for finality did she then utter it in English. "He asked for Mike?"  
  
"He did."  
  
"Asher. Tell me something, anything," pleaded Richie, for she was now white, pale, and all the laughter she had held in her eyes only moments before, gone.  
  
"You know him?" added Duncan.  
  
"Yeah. I know him. From before," she hesitated, and squeezed Richie's hand tighter, "from before I died." 


	6. More Past Revealed

April 12, 2005, 1030 AM, the apartment of Richie Ryan  
  
With the spoken consent of Duncan's permission, Richie took Asher home, for she could calm down. In the car ride home, she said nothing, not even when Richie flipped the radio to a country station, he knew she hated. If he had had any doubts before, about her being in shock, he had none now.  
  
"Want something to drink?" asked Richie, once he had closed the apartment door behind them. Asher shook her head, and mutely fell into the couch, and curled her arms around her bent knees. "Some food, then? Anything?"  
  
Asher shook her head again and barely noticed when Richie sat next to her, and gently pushed some hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. "Ash."  
  
With that word, her head jerked up. "You called me Ash."  
  
"Did I? I didn't-"  
  
Asher leaped from the couch, and paced the room. "You never call me Ash. Never call me Ash. Never call me Ash."  
  
"Asher, please, calm thoughts," but she neither heard him nor acknowledged him, and helpless Richie watched. "How do you know Sam Clarke?"  
  
Again, Asher was jerked from her private thoughts, and started into Richie. He had the feeling she strared through him, and it unnerved him. "What?"  
  
"How did you meet Sam Clarke? You had mentioned before he was an ex- boyfriend."  
  
"Yes, yes, he was."  
  
"Did you love him?"  
  
A small smile played on Asher's lips, and she took a seat next to the white-faced Richie Ryan, and took his hands into hers. "I thought I did, but I know now, I did not."  
  
"How did you meet him then?"  
  
"He was an intern in my mother's law firm. He was also my lawyer."  
  
Richie looked shell-shocked. "Yo -your lawyer?"  
  
"I never quite settled into living in the states again. We moved back there a few weeks before I was due to start high school. I got involved with the wrong crowd. Smoke, drank, cut classes. On occasion, I would smoke marijuana, or do some acid, when my friends could find it for me. My parents kept hoping I would change on my own, but when I didn't, they sent me to a private boarding school in western Massachusetts. We lived in Westchester County, New York."  
  
"Let me guess. You hated the boarding school?"  
  
"At first, yes. But slowly, I changed my opinion. I quit smoking, and I quit drinking. I stopped doing the harder drugs, and I even went to class. It was there, I learned to love music, and first learned to play the guitar. I chose to stay there for the summer. Took some classes -to catch up with the classes I had missed due to my previous state -and worked some. I taught computers to kids. A few weeks into the fall semester, a girl was found dead. My fingerprints were found on the gun."  
  
"Asher."  
  
"I was threatened with expulsion from the headmaster, and threatened with jail from the girl's parents. They took me to court. I wanted my mother to represent me, but for obvious reasons, she could not, so she sent her partner, and her new intern, Sam Clarke."  
  
"So, what happened?"  
  
"I was found not-guilty, and returned to Westchester County public high school come the spring. Still managed to graduate on time, and left for college the following autumn. Sam and I started to date not long after the trial ended. He was nine years older than I was. I was fifteen when we met."  
  
"Did he love you?"  
  
Asher shrugged. "Maybe. We broke-up the night before my mom and I were due to fly west. After the crash, I never contacted, him or anyone else. You know what happened then."  
  
"Yeah, I do." Richie paused. "It is always strange when your pre- Immortal like walks through the door. Feel better?"  
  
"Some," and Asher looked to hers and Richie's hands, still clasped together.  
  
"Do we need to go back yet?"  
  
"Not yet, no."  
  
"Mind going up to the roof then? I should practice."  
  
"Practice what?"  
  
Asher took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. Swallowing the lump and her fear, she followed with another inhale and exhale. "Sword fighting."  
  
Richie gaped, unsure if he had heard right. In the seven months he had known and loved Asher, she had not once used nor picked up a sword. "You want to sword fight?"  
  
Asher nodded, and with a quick kiss on lips, Richie pulled her up, and with two swords found and in hand, he lead her to the roof. 


	7. Fight on the Rooftop

April 12, 2005, 130 PM, a Paris Hotel/the Apartment of Richie Ryan  
  
His mind could only be classified as one thing: a complicated clutter of jumbled thoughts juxtaposed to resemble calm. Sitting in the hotel restaurant, a ham and cheese sandwich and coffee untouched before, Adam Pierson, occasionally nibbled on a French fry, as he waited. When the waitress had shown him to the table a half-hour earlier, he had made it clear, someone would join him.  
  
Finally, he saw a man of about thirty rushing through the uncrowded lobby, and Adam waved a hand. A young man flashed a business smile, and threaded his way through the table and chairs to where Adam sat. He flagged a waitress. "A coffee, doll, please. With milk, not cream. And a chicken salad sandwich. Extra mayonnaise."  
  
The waitress nodded, and Sam Clarke removed his jacket, and leaned conspiratorially towards the table and Adam, elbows against the surface. "You never mentioned Asher Jacobs worked for MacLeod, Pierson."  
  
Adam raised an eyebrow. "I did not realize you knew her acquaintance."  
  
"We dated some time ago, before she left for California. I saved her ass in court, what can I say, the girl was grateful. Murder charges, if I remember. In all honesty, she should have been convicted. She was a reformed bad girl, was known to have fought constantly with the girl found dead. They were roommates."  
  
"If Asher said she did not do it, I believe she did not do it."  
  
Sam laughed bitingly. "Oh, she said so all right. I believed her for the sake of my job, and continued the charade long enough to date her. Something like four years. She amused me well enough," he paused long enough to thank the waitress for the coffee and milk. "Funny though, she was on one of the flights that crashed. Yet, there she was, walking, talking, as if she had never been involved in a worst plane crash in history. All rights, she should be dead."  
  
"Stranger things have happened, Sam," shrugged Adam. "But, we have more pressing matters than your remembered fantasies of a young girl."  
  
"Oh, more than remembered, rath-"  
  
"I don't need or want the details, Clarke," interrupted Adam. "Now, I assume Duncan was already there."  
  
"Along with some girl. Quite the looker. Charming Irish accent."  
  
"That would be Darcy, yes. She works there as well. Careful, Sam, she bites. Now," Adam paused the conversation, flashing a smile to charm the waitress, setting the sandwich before Sam Clarke, and politely accepted the coffee refill she offered him. "Now, what exactly did MacLeod say?"  
  
"Not a whole lot. Told him I was Mike Ross' lawyer. Left him a card. Tell me again, I am doing this because?"  
  
"Because you thrive on money, Clarke, and I offered more than I can afford. And, because you have a soft spot for buried love."  
  
"You forgot the love of a challenge, Pierson. I swear, you grow more senile very time we meet. Hit your head recently?"  
  
Adam only sighed, and watched Sam tear into his sandwich. His own sandwich remained untouched.  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ----------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
Two bodies glistened in perspiration. While only one maintained the upper hand, both offered a fair fight. Two swords danced in the air, occasionally hitting the sunlight, and flashing a white light in the eyes of the two, who sparred.  
  
Only when one was pinned to the ground, sword at his throat, did the mock fight end, and the two paused to catch breaths. "Where did *breathe* learn to fight *breathe* like that?" managed Richie.  
  
Asher shrugged, and wiped the sword on the leg of her jeans. "I've fenced since *breathe* I was five, Richie. *breathe* Studied through childhood, adolescent, college.*breathe* Eleven months of slack *breathe* does not erase a lifetime of training."  
  
Richie waited a moment before he spoke again. "There was more in there. I can win a swordfight. That was not a swordfight."  
  
Asher grinned, both impish and mischievous. "Sword fighting, martial arts, and dance. I studied all three. Third degree karate black belt, first degree judo black belt, and a semi-accomplished ballerina. I combine methods. It works well, no?"  
  
"A cheater, I knew it."  
  
Looping an arm around her shoulders, they made their way back to the apartment, and while Asher poured two glasses of water, Richie shelved the swords. "Make this a regular workout?"  
  
Asher shrugged, and handed Richie his water. "Maybe. Today, I had an excuse. Tomorrow, I won't."  
  
"You need an excuse to swordfight? I'd think your life would be excuse enough."  
  
"In case you noticed up there, Richie, I don't need a sword to start with, if I want to win."  
  
"Could have been luck."  
  
Asher shook her head. "That was not luck."  
  
Richie gulped some water. It was still slightly room temperature, which was fine by him. He hated the rush of cold against his teeth, especially since he had chipped (and had capped) his front tooth four years earlier. "What was it then?"  
  
"I told you already. Fencing, martial arts, and dance."  
  
"Those are techniques, Asher. You need art form to swordfight."  
  
"Oh, and I suppose Mac taught you that?" she challenged. She did not like where this conversation was headed.  
  
"He has been my only teacher."  
  
"Well, you're lucky then, Richie. Your teacher cared. Mine didn't. Surely you remember his trying to behead me, and me winning, then running? It was a swordfight, Richie, not a matter of life and death."  
  
"But it can be, Asher. Listen, I love you, I don't want anything to happen to you."  
  
"Bullshit."  
  
Richie stared, startled. Never before had Asher rebuked his love, never had he seen her eyes blaze so cold, so harsh. "I'm sorry?"  
  
"You heard me."  
  
"This is about that man in the bar, isn't it? You said yourself you had an excuse. He's it, isn't he?"  
  
Something in her cracked, and Asher threw the glass across the room, barely flinching as the glass smashed against the wall, and the broken pieces and water spilt across the counters and the floor. "This has nothing to do with Sam Clarke, Richie, but it has everything to do with you and me. Listen to me," and she stepped over the void between them to take his chin between her thumb and forefinger, "you will not always be there to protect me. I am perfectly capable of defending myself, you saw yourself. So, I don't carry a sword. I'll live, promise."  
  
"You cannot promise that."  
  
Asher wiggled her eyebrow in response, and stepped gingerly from the kitchen. "Where you headed?" called Richie.  
  
"Shower. Mac'll have my head if I don't get back to work eventually."  
  
"Don't joke about that," mumbled Richie, but Asher either ignored the comment, or pretended not to hear. Sighing, Richie collapsed on the couch. The shattered glass would wait, but his throbbing brain would not. A first wedge had driven between. 


	8. Phone Call to New York

April 12, 2005, 145 PM, Le Blues Bar  
  
Once Darcy had exchanged the white cotton apron for her leather jacket, and walked the short distance to a neighborhood deli, to spend her lunch eating corned beef on rye with sour pickles and flirting with the counter help in exchange for free cream sodas, Duncan poured himself a glass of scotch. He had stored the white business card in the back pocket of his black jeans, and he had it on the bar counter now, staring at the letters, so familiar, and yet, so strange. Richie had called him ten minutes earlier, to say he and Asher would be back soon, and Duncan estimated he had about thirty minutes of peace and quiet. With a resoluted swallow of the alcohol, he dialed an American number into his cell phone.  
  
"Hello. Nick Wolfe, speaking."  
  
"Nick, it's Mac. How are you?"  
  
"Tired, my friend. I'm into hour forty of a forty-eight hour shift. Sometimes, I think it is only my exclusive membership which keeps me from keeling over."  
  
Despite himself, Duncan allowed himself to laugh. "Bert that much of a slave driver?"  
  
"No, but I am. So, Mac, what's today's excuse?"  
  
Duncan frowned, and he knew the marred expression was audible in his voice. "Can a four hundred year old man not call his best friend to say hi?"  
  
"Well, normally, yes. But you, Mac, you always have an excuse. So, what is it?"  
  
"I had a Sam Clarke in earlier. He left a card. A New York address. Works out of the same building you do. Know him?"  
  
For a moment, Nick Wolfe was quiet. Elbows against the wooden desk of his New York City office, chin propped in his hands, for a full moment, he said nothing, but only calmly took a sip of his lukewarm coffee. "Clarke? Lawyer, right?"  
  
"Correct."  
  
"There is a law office. Wales, Johnson, and Clarke. I believe Clarke is the junior partner. Friends with one of they guys who works here. He had mentioned a trip to Europe. Say anything of notice?"  
  
"Said he was Mike Ross' lawyer. Most lawyers will not travel across an ocean to visit a client, Nick."  
  
"I'll see if I can find any dirt on him. Just do me a favor, Mac?"  
  
"Yeah, sure."  
  
"You and Richie both need to stop calling in favors. First, he needs me to hack into the Watcher database, and now this. Someone's bound to notice something. Bert is very perceptive. Suppose he has to be in his line of work."  
  
"I'll keep that in mind," laughed Duncan, grateful Nick had laughed as well. "So, how's my favorite girl? Keeping you on your toes?"  
  
"What she does best. She sends her love, I'm sure. Keeps begging me to meet with you. As if, you were all just not here for Christmas."  
  
"Well, Amanda is special."  
  
Nick's laughter rang through the wires. "And, how is everyone there? Heard from Adam recently?"  
  
"Everyone is well here, but no, no word from Adam," and Duncan paused, swallowing more of the scotch. "Speaking of which, seems our Asher knew Sam Clarke in a past life. Think that somehow has something to do with his arrival?"  
  
"Maybe. As said Mac, I'll see what I can find. Ciao."  
  
The dial tone echoed in Duncan's ears, and he ended the call, swallowed the last of his scotch. There were still boxes to be unpacked, of a late arrival. Once Mike arrived, he would ask if he knew a certain Sam Clarke. Now, he only flipped on the radio, and went to unpack the boxes. The bar felt entirely too quiet. 


	9. Mike Arrives on the Scene

Author's Note: raises eyebrow, nods had, moves on.  
  
to blackblade: in fifteen words or less, Sam Clarke is power-hungry, manipulative, bitter, revengeful. The luncheon meeting between him and Adam Pierson was not all that it seemed. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -----------------------------------------------------------  
  
April 12, 2005, 600PM, Le Blues Bar/the Paris Library  
  
Mike Ross arrived in time for the impending dinner hour. He removed his sunglasses, only to perch them atop his head, and he slipped behind the bar counter, to stuff his jacket into a cubbyhole. He had his apology already planned. He had had a dentist appointment in the morning, and having stopped in a coffee shop afterwards, he had met with a young American, who claimed to have known Duncan MacLeod. They had chatted briefly, of this and that, when the American finally left for a lunch date with an old friend.  
  
The bar was empty. From the backroom, he could hear the familiar sounds of Asher scolding the computer, and he softly pushed open the door. Darcy sat cross-legged on the couch, flipping through a fashion magazine, and Mike sighed. Since they had slept together last winter, the air between them had been tenser than before. "Where's everyone today, Asher?"  
  
"Out, I suppose," she shrugged, and turned swiveled the chair to face Mike. "You just getting in?"  
  
"Yeah, I had some things to take care of today. Mac upset?"  
  
"Miffed, I think would be the better description."  
  
Mike cocked his head to the left. "Everything ok?"  
  
Asher shrugged again. She had prided herself in hiding her emotions, and she knew Mike could not read her below the surface. He would not know she had cried in the shower, or that when she emerged fully-dressed, the glass had been swept and disposed of, or that Richie had disappeared, leaving no note. She had hoped he had come here, but he had not, only Darcy and Duncan manned the bar, and Duncan had left soon after she had arrived to run errands. "Ok should cover today. We've had strange guests."  
  
"Anyone I know?"  
  
"Somehow, Mike, I doubt it. Although, he claims to know you."  
  
"Oh? What's this guy's name?"  
  
Asher turned back to the monitor, and clicked a few keys, commanding the computer to store a particular file in a particular folder. "There. Done."  
  
"XP3 downloaded?" asked Darcy, not lifting her gaze from the magazine.  
  
"Uploaded, actually. It was only an upgrade, I did, but yes, it is all set. Mac should not have any problems. For a while, at least."  
  
"Asher. What was his name?" repeated Mike.  
  
Asher sighed, and fumbled to shut down the computer. She rose from the chair, and faced Mike. She knew the sadness in her expression showed clearly. "Clarke. His name was Samuel Clarke. He's a lawyer. Claimed to be yours."  
  
Once the door had shut behind her, Darcy marked her place in the magazine, and caught Mike's gaze. "Nice going, ace. You put your mouth into it this time."  
  
"I think you mean my foot, Darce," he responded, and sighed, following the gentle motions of the door closing. "How was I supposed to know it was a sore subject?"  
  
"Next time," bit Darcy, standing, and tossing the magazine onto the couch (having already memorized the page number), "do us all a favor, and don't ask. You and talking was always a bad idea." She stood next to him now, and Mike could see the flash in her eyes, but whether it anger, regret or sadness, he could not tell. "And, you just proved it again, Mike."  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------  
  
He had spent the past three and half hours in the library. He had searched every American phone book, every American reference book he could find, and had now turned to the Internet. Having forked over his keys in exchange for thirty minutes of interrupted Internet use, he had searched every search engine he could. And, still, he had found nothing.  
  
Richie sighed, disconnected, and reclaimed his keys. He had to face Asher sometime before the night ended, and he could use a good, stiff drink. Climbing into his convertible, he clicked the radio on, to ease the silence, and wished Methos was in Paris. Somehow, the old man always had an answer. 


	10. Tower Top Conversation

April 13, 2005, 6 AM, the Eiffel Tower/ the Apartment of Richie Ryan  
  
Asher had not slept. After Mike had arrived, she had invented an excuse to leave, and had left the bar. With nothing but her black sweater-coat to protect her against the spring evening chill, she had wandered the streets of Paris, before finally stopping in the same restaurant for a coffee and slice of chocolate cake, that she had been to in those months before, when she had first arrived in the French capital.  
  
Richie had been waiting for her, sprawled on the couch, sipping at an iced tea and watching some old movie, when she arrived at the apartment. She had curled beside him, resting her head on his shoulder, but neither had offered a word, and the old comfort between them was strained. When sunrise came, Asher slipped out again, still in the same clothes from yesterday, and threaded her way through the early morning fog, to the one place she had promised to never visit again: the Eiffel Tower.  
  
Samuel Clarke already waited on the tower's top. "You're awake early," he greeted, having not turned from the view.  
  
"I never slept. You seem to have that affect on me. Still."  
  
"Nice to know some things never change. Speaking of which, see you still wear the same shoes." He paused, grinning at the old, familiar sight of the black on black saddle shoes she still wore. "How have you been, Ash?"  
  
"I've been well. First year law student now. On a break now, but I have finals next month."  
  
"Wonderful," he congratulated, and it was here he turned to face her. The sincerity of the comment did not reach his eyes. "Still writing your music?"  
  
"When I have the time. How about you, Sam? How have you been?"  
  
"Fair. Wandering here and there, mostly there. I'm a junior partner now."  
  
"That's great, Sam." Asher paused, and allowed herself to sigh. "Why are you here?"  
  
"I've been hired out, Ash. I promise you, I did not come here to hurt you. Not intentionally."  
  
"Liar," she breathed. "It is your manner to hurt me, Sam. I was warned, but I never listened. That was my manner, I suppose."  
  
A perplexed look crossed Sam's face, and he took one step closer, closing the gap between them. "What were you warned about, Asher Jacobs?"  
  
"About you." Asher turned from him, crossing the platform to the railing, and looked into the city, where the first sunlight touched the building tops, turning the horizon to gold. "I knew what you were the first moment I kissed you, all those years ago, but I stayed because I thought I loved you, because I thought you loved me."  
  
"I did love you, Asher. I did."  
  
"No, Sam. You never did, just as I never loved you."  
  
Sam sighed, and stepped to the railing, arms hanging over. "You've changed, Ash. You're, you're different."  
  
"And you, Samuel Clarke, are exactly the same as you always were."  
  
"How did you know to find me here?" he finally asked, breaking the silence, which had settled for several moments between them.  
  
"I didn't. I needed to mull thoughts, and you happened to be on my old mulling ground."  
  
Sam smiled, the barest hint of the quirking of his mouth. "I did not come here to hurt you."  
  
"Why did you come?"  
  
"I told you already, I was hired out. To collect information on a certain someone for an old friend."  
  
"Why say you were Mike's lawyer?"  
  
"It seemed to be the story to bring the least suspicion. Guess I was wrong," he shrugged, smiling sheepishly. "Duncan MacLeod misses very little. That Darcy misses less."  
  
"Suppose it comes with the line of work," whispered Asher, causing Sam to look her way. "You learn people, interacting with them everyday," she added quickly.  
  
"Guess so." The silence settled between them again, slightly less tense, but no less heavier. Once again, it was Sam, who broke the silence. "What's your story, Ash? How did you find your way back here? All rights, you should be dead."  
  
Asher shrugged, and she forced her voice to be light. "I was lucky, I suppose." From her tone, Sam knew to leave the subject alone. "The friend who hired you, male or female?"  
  
Sam did not answer immediately, and when he finally did, he answered in a voice barely above a whisper, so Asher had to strain to hear him. "Male."  
  
Silently, she turned to leave, but Sam caught her arm, and for a moment, she hesitated. "Ash, wait. Are you still isolophobic?"  
  
"I never was, Sam. I am aviatophobic. Fear of isolation was always merely a benefit." She extracted her arm from his grasp, and only when she reached the edge, did she turn. "And, Sam, don't call me Ash." With that, she made her way again to the ground, and Sam remained for some time more, staring into the expanse that was Paris.  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------  
  
When Asher returned to the apartment, Richie was still asleep, although he now slept in the bed, and not the couch where she had left him. With as little noise, she slipped out of her clothes, and climbed underneath the covers next to him, staring at the ceiling.  
  
"That you, Asher?" he mumbled.  
  
"It's me, Rich."  
  
"Where'd you go?"  
  
"I needed to clear my head."  
  
"I tried to research Samuel Clarke at the library yesterday. Went to the bar to tell you I found nothing, but Darcy said you already left."  
  
He was still half-asleep, and with infinite tenderness, Asher lightly ran a finger the length on his profile. "No, you wouldn't have," she mumbled, and rolling into the comfort of his embrace, she managed a few fitful hours of sleep. 


	11. Quarrels and Omelets

April 13, 2005, 8 AM, the apartment of Richie Ryan  
  
For once, Richie awoke first. Asher was still curled into his side, her face hidden behind the curtain of her strawberry-blonde hair. In her sleep, he humbled the tune of a song he was not familiar with, and he could only assume it was one of her own. Exerting delicate cautiousness, he extracted himself from the bed, only having to pry the ghost-soft grasp of Asher's fingers off his arm once. Avoiding to make too much noise, he quickly dressed, and padded barefoot to the kitchen too see about some food. A young man, however old he may be, or however long he may live, could always do with more food.  
  
After observing the contents of his cupboards and refrigerator for several minutes, he decided to cook himself an omelet, and rummaged around to find the necessary ingredients. Eggs, salt, pepper, green and red peppers, onion, and some ham. He hummed to himself, unconsciously echoing the same tune he had heard Asher hum in her sleep, as he added the fillings and flipped the eggs. The coffee was already ready, and he popped two pieces of toast into the toaster, taking a plate from the cupboard for his breakfast, and sipping his coffee for the eggs could cool some.  
  
Finally ready, he retrieved the newspaper from outside the front door, and settled at the table, savoring and swallowing a welcome bite of his breakfast. He washed the eggs down with another swallow of coffee.  
  
He heard the padding of more barefoot feet across the floor, and of the familiar rummaging in the cupboard for some form of cutlery. A few moments later, Asher sat across him, holding her own mug of coffee. She still looked half-asleep, hair still framing her face in soft waves, dressed in a pair of his sweatpants and an UCLA sweatshirt about two sizes too big.  
  
"Morning," he drawled. "Hope I didn't wake you."  
  
"You didn't."  
  
"Want an omelet?"  
  
Asher shook her head, sipping some more of the bitter liquid she held. She still did not know to why she had started drinking coffee on a semi-regular basis when she hated it so much. Swallowing some more, she decided it must have to do with her company. Richie, Duncan, Adam, Amanda, and Nick all drank it regularly. Maybe it was an Immortal habit, she decided.  
  
"I met with Sam," she finally offered, more to the air than to Richie.  
  
"Oh?" His hands tensed around the fork handle, and he averted his eyes from the newspaper article he had been reading.  
  
"Atop the Eiffel Tower."  
  
It took all of Richie's control to not drop the fork he held, and he was careful to swallow before he tried to scream, breathe, or talk, he then proceeded to attempt both the first two simultaneously. The small pewter modle of the tower, which he had given her for his birthday, still rested on the nightstand next to their bed, where she had placed it. So, it was the last thing she saw every night, and the first thing she saw every morning, she had often said. But despite so, she had not visited the Eiffel Tower since September, when she had thought she was leaving Paris, and had said good-bye.  
  
"I'm sorry, Asher. It sounded as though you said you had met Sam Clarke atop the Eiffel Tower, but I must have heard wrong. You swore to never visit the tower again."  
  
"You heard me right, Richie," she shrugged, her voice soft. "I needed to mull some thoughts, and I suppose I still favor the Tower for the best mulling ground. Sam happened to be there as well."  
  
"You two talked?"  
  
"We did."  
  
Richie had lost his appetite, and although still more than half the omelet still remained, he pushed the plate aside. "Do I get to hear about what?"  
  
"Mostly what had happened since we last saw one another," she shook her head when she saw Richie's mouth open in protest. "I did not tell him about being an Immortal, Ryan. I am not stupid."  
  
"Never said you were," mumbled Richie, to which Asher raised her eyebrow.  
  
"I asked him why he had come to Paris. He said he had been hired out. As some sort of favor to an old friend," she paused, swallowing some more coffee. "A male friend."  
  
"I thought he was a lawyer?"  
  
"He was, or he is, rather. But, he has always done other jobs, for the high fee, of course." She blushed, and averted her own gaze from Richie's eyes, finding sudden interest in the last dregs of her coffee.  
  
"Asher," was Richie's soft reply, reaching across the table, placing his own hand over hers. "Tell me what you know."  
  
"That is what I know, Richie. I swear. Sam was never one to elaborate on his missions, as he called them."  
  
Richie sighed. "We should tell Mac. He must be wondering just who our strange visitor was yesterday." Asher nodded unenthusiastically. "Everything ok, Asher?"  
  
She remained silent for a long moment. "What made you want to be with me, Richie?"  
  
Richie was taken back, but quickly he regained his composure. "You are a sweet, caring, intelligent, beautiful person. I feel honored to know and love you." He paused, cocked his head slightly, never taking his hand from hers. "Why?"  
  
"No reason," she muttered, shaking her head. "Just a bit of conversation between Sam and me. Or, rather a bit of conversation that neither he nor I did not voice out loud, but should have."  
  
"What?"  
  
Asher stood, pulling her hands from Richie's, and crossed to the sink to rinse the mug. "That despite having been together for four years, despite him being my first, despite everything, we both used one another. He was my last, somewhat safe, stake at reformed teenage rebellion. He thought I was good in bed." She shrugged, and left the mug, full of water, in the already dish-cluttered sink. She made a mental note to wash the dishes later.  
  
"He hurt you," observed Richie quietly, noting the bitterness in his voice.  
  
"It is all past, Richie."  
  
"Is it, Asher?" he asked, own bitterness noted. He stood, and crossed the floor, coming behind her, and spinning her, so he could see her eyes. "Here he is, in Paris, with some hidden agenda. Do you know what it is? Because I certainly don't."  
  
"It has very little to do with me, Richie. I promise you."  
  
"Maybe so, Asher, but it seems to have everything to do with you and me."  
  
Asher was a quiet before slipping from her spot between Richie and the kitchen counter. Putting a few feet distance between them, she sighed. "Maybe we should get dressed. You said yourself we should go talk to Mac."  
  
Richie's only response was a sigh of his own. 


	12. Realization to the Sound of Celtic Opera...

Author's Note: this chapter and the previous chapter overlap slightly in timeframe. The events of last chapter span roughly forty-five minutes, from about 8-845, where as this chapter spans roughly two hours from roughly 810- 1030. (All times are AM) sorry for any confusion.  
  
As always, I only lay ownership rights to Asher Jacobs. I also own Samuel Clarke, however manipulative he may be. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -----------------------  
  
April 13, 2005, 810AM, Le Blues Bar  
  
Duncan found himself coming into an empty bar. When he had returned last night, having to have run some errands, Asher was nowhere to be seen, and his bartender and Irish waitress were in a front booth, conducting a staring contest, just short it seemed, of forgetting the friendly competition aspect, and slitting one another's throats. Not the best way to die, he had mused, watching them.  
  
Now, early morning once again, he let himself into the bar, devoid of everyone, employees and customers, everyone but himself. For one moment, one brief moment, he almost wished he could keep the bar like that. Empty. Quiet. Maybe then, Methos would not have left. Disgusted with the very thought, he shook it from his head, and turned to ready the bar for customers.  
  
Had Amanda been there with him, she would have scolded, her voice making it sound more like an agitated purr. In the months since Methos' hasty departure, she had seen him at both his best and his worst. This past December, when they had all spent the Christmas holidays at the New Hampshire cabin again, he had insisted on taking the room he had shared with Methos the year before. It had been Amanda, who found him wrapped in the linens, sobbing into the pillow, hoping it would muffle his tears. Amanda had sat with him, rubbing his back, whispering soothing words well into the night, telling him he should cry, should think fondly of Methos.  
  
He doubted that thought had been a fond one. It had been harsh on only himself, as Methos had said he blamed the bar for his departure. Or maybe, Duncan had come to believe that in the months alone. For despite his friends' good intentions, trying to set him up with both females and males, Duncan refused to become involved. To preserve the memory, he supposed, and to be alone in his own brooding and pain.  
  
Suddenly wary of the quiet, he flipped the radio on, grimacing at the American punk rock, which blared from the speakers. No doubt Richie's choice from when he had helped out last week. He changed the station to one of his liking: celtic operatic rock.  
  
Focusing on the music, he cleaned the counter, the tables, and without thinking, the chairs as well. He moved about the small corner stage, running a cloth over the microphone stand, and the wood of the stage floor, wishing Joe Dawson was there to play again. Duncan sighed, and stepped hesitantly off the stage.  
  
He finished the cleaning of the main floor, and moved to the bathrooms, scrubbing the toilets, the sinks, and checking to make sure the soap and towel dispensers were full. They were. Finished, he moved again behind the bar, and checked to make sure the alcohol and other drinks were well in stock. He was good.  
  
Satisfied, he poured himself some ice water, and took a long slow drink. The glass was empty when he had finally brought it again to the counter. Still no one had arrived, but he was not surprised. Yesterday's early arrivals by his two waitresses had been a fluke, he was sure.  
  
Having skipped breakfast, he found some cereal he stored in the small kitchen, and poured himself a bowl, adding the right amount of milk. He sat at the bar, having poured himself another glass, this time of orange juice, and ate the cereal. He added some more, to finish the remaining milk.  
  
Silently, he washed the bowl and glass, and left them next to the sink to dry. He shot his head around, having felt the tell-tale buzz of not one, but two Immortals. He cursed in Gaelic. Assuring himself he had his sword ready, he tiptoed from the kitchen, and sighed in relief. It was only Richie and Asher.  
  
"Bonjour," he greeted, letting them in. He discreetly glanced at his watch. Almost ten. He had been there almost two hours. Richie and Asher were only slightly early, but not too early. Normal, in other terms. "What can I do for you?"  
  
"Um, I work here, Mac? Have for seven months now?" teased Asher.  
  
"So does he. For years," he retorted, referring to Richie. "However, it is till too early for either of you to begin work. Seeing, as my computer is all set."  
  
Asher and Richie briefly caught one another's eye, and Duncan was aware of both an understanding and a tension, which caught between them. "Guys? You need something? Want something?"  
  
"Not exactly, no," Richie finally said, having found his voice. "More, we have some information you might appreciate."  
  
"Oh?" he crossed his arms in interest.  
  
"It's about our visitor from yesterday."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"He is collecting information on someone for someone," blurted Asher.  
  
"On someone for someone?" repeated Duncan. "Any idea who these someones might be?"  
  
Richie shook his head, but Asher paused. "I think I might," she whispered, and both men turned to face her. "In the second year Sam Clarke and I dated," she nearly choked on the word 'dated', "Sam mentioned having met the acquaintance of a tall, dark-haired man, who spoke with a British-esque accent. Said something about owing the man a favor. Seems they had a run in while Sam was still in law school. Guest professor, or the like, I think he said."  
  
"So, why would he owe this guy a favor then?" prodded Richie.  
  
"I don't know," Asher responded. "But I think that acquaintance may have been Adam Pierson."  
  
"I thought you had said you had never met Adam before you first arrived," questioned Duncan.  
  
"I haven't. And, I just now made the connection. Sam will only do these missions of his for high prices, but if he owes someone a favor, he will lower his price his considerably. He does some integrity left in him. You didn't know who he was, Mac, when he was here yesterday, and as he is definitely not Mike's lawyer, Adam is the only left to fit the bill."  
  
Asher's connection dawned on Duncan. "So, I must be the other someone."  
  
"Precisely," she agreed.  
  
"So, Adam must be back in Paris?"  
  
Asher glanced to the floor. "He is."  
  
Duncan frowned. "Something tells me it is not my business to know just how you know that. This does change things, though?" "How so?" asked Richie.  
  
Duncan paused briefly, trying to find the right words. "The dynamics of these relationships we hold dear," he finally decided on, speaking the words in a voice barely above a whisper. Richie and Asher shared another mixed glance, quickly looking away. "Well, since you're both here," he added after a moment, "you can set the napkins and silverwares on the tables. Do an old man the favor?"  
  
"Man, you are not *that* old," stressed Richie, and Duncan chuckled.  
  
"Get to work, kid," he sputtered between the chuckles. Otherwise now silent, Asher, too, allowed herself a small smile. 


	13. A Clue Wrapped in Yellow

Author's Notes: to milady, yes Nick Wolfe was a character from Highlander: The Raven. He was a potential love interest for Amanda. I've simply taken it a few steps further with his character. And also, because I think you were the one who asked me this, Avitaphobia means 'fear of flying.' Isolophobia means 'fear of isolation.'  
  
As always, same disclaimer applies. Would not mind owning a certain tall dark-haired man with a certain British-esque accent tho. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -----------------------------------------  
  
April 13, 2005, 130 PM, Le Blues Bar (730 AM, the New York Office of Nick Wolfe [due to the time difference])  
  
When the phone rang towards the beginning of the scheduled lunch hour, it was Darcy who answered the phone. "Hello. Le Blues Bar. Alcohol and entertainment are our specialties. Flirting is mine."  
  
A low chuckle floated through the wires, and it was a full minute before the spoken response finally came through. "I am assuming, Darcy, that if you have taken to answering the phone as so again, Mac would be nowhere in the vicinity?"  
  
"You have guessed correctly, Nick. Give the young man a prize." Her voice broadened into a large grin, and she mouthed 'Nick Wolfe' to Richie's questioning glance. He and Mike had been in the kitchen when the phone rang, and he now stood behind Darcy, tapping her shoulders, in hopes the phone call had been for him. "I'm assuming you wanted to speak to him?"  
  
"I would have liked to, yes. Any idea when he'll be back?"  
  
"Umm, soon? He left for the bank. Doubt the bank will take too long. Can I give him a message?"  
  
From his New York office, Nick sighed. "Tell him I have what he asked me for."  
  
"Ooo, a mysterious message. Very cryptic. Should I expect to see dead bodies soon too?"  
  
"This is not Clue," scolded Nick, but he grimaced all the same.  
  
"A shame. Good movie. Decent board game. I'll give him the message, Nick. Now, sure you don't want to take advantage of today's special offers? Free of charge for old friends."  
  
"Positive, Darcy. But I will keep that in mind for next time I am in Paris. Ciao."  
  
Hanging up the phone, Nick Wolfe's head fell against the top of his desk, and a sickening bang echoed throughout the office. A receptionist looked up, and he waved away her puzzled expression, cursing under his breath. For someone, who nothing of Immortals (despite having worked and being friends with several for three years running now), Darcy Gallagher definitely knew how to strike cords close to the truth. Running a hand through his hair, he dialed another number, this one local.  
  
"Hellooo," purred the unmistakable voice.  
  
"Manda, listen, it's me. I need a favor."  
  
"I'm listening, Nicky."  
  
"In the left nightstand by our bed, in the top drawer, there should be a manila envelope. Get it, please?"  
  
A long pause, a slight scuffle, and the sound of a drawer opening, then closing. "Have it."  
  
"Good. There should be a yellow sheet of paper towards the front. See it?"  
  
"Yes. What is this about, Nicky?"  
  
"Bring that sheet to the office for me, please. It is important. And, also, Amanda, I need you to book two plane tickets to Paris. Preferably for tomorrow."  
  
"Paris in the springtime, lovely. Tell me this is more than a business excursion."  
  
"I will tell you everything tonight, sweetheart. I promise. See you soon?"  
  
"Of course. Just let me dress. Hope you have a jacket, because since I am already there, we shall take brunch together."  
  
"I am looking forward to it. Love you," he whispered. 


	14. A Meeting in the Cemetary

April 13, 2005, 230 PM, a cemetery, Paris  
  
Duncan had only half-lied. He did go to the bank, as he had said he would be, but that was only one of two errands he had needed to run. And, the bank was such a quick errand due to the modern convenience of the Automatic Teller Machine. Having started the ignition of the T-Bird again, he drove now to the small graveyard close to the church grounds.  
  
After Asher had shared her theory, he had mulled it in his mind, tossing it back and forth, determining how likely it could be. He finally concluded it was, but he still wanted to determine for himself. Only one person would know definitely, and if he were back in Paris, he would likely be here, as any other place. He parked the car, strolling towards the simple stone marking of Alexa's grave. He felt the telltale buzz, but could see no one around, only heard voices. Not one, but two. Lost, he ducked behind a nearby tree, and prayed the Immortal was indeed Methos. He may have been on Holy Ground, but he still wanted to take no chances.  
  
"I still don't understand this, Adam. You risked your cover all to visit a cemetery?" asked the second voice.  
  
"This grave is worth risking for," Adam replied softly. "You've been in love, Clarke. Surely you understand?"  
  
"Love, bah. A fleeting emotion, there one moment, gone the next. Told today I have never loved."  
  
"Anyone I know say this?"  
  
"Probably. Asher Jacobs."  
  
Adam nodded, for a moment, offering no response. "I have fallen in love many many times, Sam. Seems to me, you must have felt something for Asher."  
  
"Well, sure. Sex," he grinned. Adam came to a halt, and Sam to one beside him. "This the grave?"  
  
"It is," once again, Adam's voice was soft. "I loved her, I do still love her. For such a short time we had together, we had the world at our fingertips."  
  
"If you still love her, what am I doing here?"  
  
Adam turned to face his companion, and frowned slightly. He turned to walk again, and he was aware Sam Clarke matched his footsteps stride for stride. He paused again, only briefly, and scanned the cemetery. Another Immortal was near. He thanked every god he had ever known for the Holy Ground beneath his feet. "You are here," he responded, walking again, "because the human heart was never created to love just one person. Several years have passed since I lost Alexa, my heart has since healed the more surface hurts, and has allowed me to love another again."  
  
"Duncan MacLeod."  
  
"Yes, Duncan MacLeod."  
  
"So, explain something to me then, Pierson. If you love this Duncan MacLeod, why leave, and then why come back without telling him?"  
  
"I have my reasons. Your job is to find out his."  
  
Sam Clarke laughed shortly, without the laugh reaching his eyes. "Back to the same cryptic ways of before we were friends, I see. No matter. Give me tomorrow. I'll have just the information you want," he promised, pivoting on his heels, to the direction of the parking lot. Only when he reached the gate of the graveyard, did he stop gain, and look over his shoulder. "Hey, Pierson, I never did love her. Asher, I mean. We used one another to our own advantages."  
  
"Standard human nature," mumbled Adam, but Sam Clarke had already stepped out of the cemetery, and did not hear him. He raised his head again, an unreadable expression crossing his face. "It is not polite to eavesdrop, MacLeod," he called.  
  
With no guilt, Duncan stepped out from behind the tree. "Hello, Methos. Long time."  
  
"What is a long time to us?" Adam shrugged. "What did you want?"  
  
"I have what I came for. An answer to a theory Asher raised this morning."  
  
Adam nodded, and stepped forward, walking the circular path of the cemetery. Duncan trotted lightly beside him. Two solitary figures, both dressed in long black overcoats, billowing behind them. "Glad I could be of some service then."  
  
"Why did you come back?" Duncan asked, breaking several moments of uncomfortable silence, which had descended upon them.  
  
"I would have thought it to be obvious, MacLeod." He paused, coming to a halt, standing at a lone grave near to the church. "Here it is, and here we are." He turned to face Duncan, memorizing the face he once knew very well, before he turned again. "Love is misery. Misery is love."  
  
"Sounds like a bumper sticker."  
  
"So, I said, however, Teresa Cielo contradicted me. Should we make bumper stickers, we would be rich, but only with money. And, despite my persona, I don't need the money."  
  
"What do you need?"  
  
"Again, I thought the answer was obvious." He paused, swallowed. "What was Asher's theory?"  
  
It was several moments before Duncan finally answered. "Said that you had hired Sam to collect information on me."  
  
Adam allowed himself a tiny half-smile. "Asher would be correct, but only partially. I am not collecting information on you directly, MacLeod, but rather on the bar. Which you do fit into, indirectly."  
  
"You could have just asked me."  
  
"No," Adam replied softly. He shook his head, all the hurt and the pain he had felt in the last seven months hurrying to the surface of his skin and into the pools of his eyes. "No, I could not have. I needed a neutral bumper between us."  
  
Duncan only nodded, mumbled something under his breath. "Do you remember what I told you the day I left, Duncan?"  
  
Duncan nodded again; dimly aware Methos had called him by his first name.  
  
"That is why, I could I not ask you directly." With a long last look at both Duncan and the grave they stood at, Adam swept his coat behind him, and walked away. He turned only once, halfway between Duncan and the gate. "If I find what I hope to, I will tell you again, Duncan. If not," but he did not finish the thought, and Duncan did not need him to.  
  
Aware of the sudden quiet, Duncan glanced down at the stone he stood before, and an ironic smile quirked at his mouth. 'Joe Dawson,' read the stone, 'friend, mentor, musician.' "Maybe you were right all along, old friend," murmured Duncan, and he too left the cemetery. 


	15. Duncan Comes to a Decision

April 13, 2005, 255 PM, Le Blues Bar  
  
When Duncan returned to Le Blues Bar, he found Mike manning the bar, serving drinks to a crowd of rowdy university students. "Need some help?" he offered, coming around behind the counter.  
  
"I think I've got it covered. Thanks, Mac."  
  
"Anyone else around?"  
  
"Asher's in the kitchen, someone ordered food. Last I checked, Darcy was in the lap of some guy, and Richie was searching for your hidden stock of rum. Why?"  
  
"Serve these customers, then come around back. Staff meeting to be held."  
  
"Sure thing, boss. Just give me five more. I'll even get Darcy for you."  
  
If not for the seriousness of the situation, Duncan would have grinned at Mike's comment. Nodding his consent, Duncan MacLeod poked his head into the kitchen to let Asher know of the plans, before ducking into the back office. There, he found Richie rummaging around in the boxes in the far corner. "Yo, Ryan, honestly think I would keep my rum there?"  
  
Richie grinned sheepishly, turned to face Richie. "Mike told one me, huh?"  
  
"Yep. Grab a seat tho. As soon as the others join, we have a staff meeting."  
  
Richie swore lightly under his breath. In French, and Duncan raised an eyebrow. "Very colorful choice." This only had Richie to swear again.  
  
"Hey, Mac, your friend Nick Wolfe called earlier. Said he had whatever he asked for. Laid no claims to dead bodies tho."  
  
"Umm, thanks, Darce. I'll call him back. After we are done here."  
  
He glanced around the small room. To Richie sprawled on the couch, in a fashion which would make Methos proud, to Asher, also on the couch, keeping some space between her and Richie, her feet tucked under her. To Darcy, who sat backwards in the desk chair, idly spinning, and finally to Mike, who slouched against the closed door, arms crossed over his chest, a pair of sunglasses dangling from his right hand.  
  
Both friends and employees, he only hoped they would understand. But he knew this was the right decision. He had decided on the drive back, radio blaring to keep out the silence, the memory of Methos screaming in his head. He had to do this.  
  
"Hey, Mac," called Mike from where he stood. "Hate to rush this along and all, but we left the patrons out there, alone. Capable of anything, in drunken catastrophe."  
  
"Right. I'll make this quick." Duncan paused, took a deep breath, and slowly released. "I have decided to sell the bar." 


	16. The Staff Meeting

Author's Note: I suppose I should admit, of the Highlander episodes I have seen, I have never actually seen Mike, have only heard him mentioned. Taking what I knew (that he was the head bartender), I created this back- story for him. Like all the other cannon Highlander characters, I do not own Mike, I do however own the reason he gives for not wanting to "inherit" the bar from Duncan. For those who are familiar with the "real" Mike, I ask you to keep two things in mind. 1) this story is AU, and I have changed several slight details (from both Highlander and Highlander: The Raven). And, 2) Mike's decision will help to bridge into the sequel to this story.  
  
Please note also, I only own Asher Jacobs, Darcy, and Sam Clarke. Like every fanfiction writer, I only borrow the others for my own amusement.  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -------------  
  
April 13, 2005, 305 PM, Le Blues Bar  
  
No one spoke. Darcy halted her idle turning, and blindly Asher reached for Richie's hand, lacing her fingers through his. He caught her eyes briefly, smiling shyly. Only Mike seemed to be unaffected.  
  
"You were right in your theory, Asher. Adam has indeed hired Sam Clarke," continued Duncan.  
  
"So, what does this have to do with selling the bar?" Darcy asked. Her voice sounded plaintive, even to her own ears. She noticed the calm expression Mike still kept serenely in place.  
  
"Because of something Adam said to me, both before he left, and again today." He paused again, to observe the varied expressions, and he sighed. "I had hoped one of you would take the bar. I would hate to see it pass to a stranger's hand."  
  
Duncan's eyes circled the room, and he saw Mike shake his head. The bartender did not have to speak his mind to make his answer known. He was twenty-eight, and had first been hired under Joe Dawson nine years earlier, in his second year as college, originally as a dish boy. When Joe had learned he was skilled in the art of mixing drinks, he had begun to allow him to help bartend the busy nights, before long, promoting him to head bartender. When the business had moved permanently to Paris, Mike had followed, but he was now ready to move on. To go back to school for his master's to teach high school English. He would have left after Joe had died, had Duncan not begged him to stay, and both men knew it.  
  
Duncan nodded slightly, a look having passed between the two men, and Duncan shifted his gaze beseechingly, darting between the two figures on the couch with hands still tightly clasped, and Darcy, who shook her head regretfully. "I'll be twenty-four next month, Mac. I graduate university this spring. I want to see the world, I want to act," she paused, "you knew I would be leaving shortly after."  
  
"Yes, I knew. I understand, Darce." He turned now to the last two figures, one of whom had only worked for seven months, but the other, who had worked first in the Seacouver bar, and now in Le Blues Bar on-and-off since he was nineteen -eleven years. "Richie?"  
  
"I'll have to think about it, Mac."  
  
Duncan nodded again, sighed, and he ordered everyone back to work. Miraculously, the bar, having been left alone to the crowd of drunken college students, still stood. Mike returned to the mixing and serving of the drinks, Asher retrieved the now room-temperature food from the kitchen to serve, Richie found the rum, moving to stock it in the shelves. Duncan sighed, and moved to keep his date with the paperwork he would need to finish. No one noticed the conspiratorial wink pass between Mike and Darcy. 


	17. A Gift Returned

April 13, 2005, 730 PM, Le Arc de Triumph  
  
Samuel Clarke frowned. This was a twist to the tale. Locking the hotelroom door behind him, he pocketed the key, took the stairs to the lobby, and he hailed for a taxi. "Le Arc de Triumph, Monsieur," he ordered, to which the taxi driver nodded.  
  
Asher was already there, leaning nonchalantly against the stones, just under the arch, the tails of the black sweater-coat she wore flapping about her ankles. She had been surprised when Sam had phoned the bar, asking her to meet him.  
  
"Is it true then, Asher? Duncan MacLeod is selling the bar?" he asked after he greeted her.  
  
"How did you-? He only told us today."  
  
"I have my ways," he shrugged. "But this will please Pierson. He had hoped -but never mind what he hoped. What is done is done."  
  
"What did he hope for, Sam?"  
  
Sam shrugged again, a gesture both cynical and melancholy. "Same thing I had once hoped for, I suppose." He paused, turning to face Asher directly, taking her hands into his. "Do you love Richie, Asher?"  
  
"Very much."  
  
He dropped her hands. "I am glad of that, at least. Pierson was right of one thing. I do have a soft spot for buried love."  
  
"So, you will tell Adam of the bar?"  
  
"I think, in his old age and wisdom," he spoke this mockingly, as Adam Pierson could not have possibly been more than thirty, "he knew what would come to pass when he met MacLeod today."  
  
"I didn't know he meant Mac today."  
  
"In a graveyard, of all places."  
  
"I didn't know Mac visited the graveyard today."  
  
Sam chuckled, but like all his laughs, it held some quality of cynicism. "There are a great many things you don't know, Ash." He paused to sober. "I have something for you. I've kept it since you ran away from UCLA, and carelessly left this in an old professor's office. He was found decapitated. Don't suppose you know anything of that?"  
  
"Of course I do not," she responded, but took the object, wrapped in brown paper and string. Sam mumbled something of airport security, but she didn't hear. "My sword," she murmured. "I don't understand. How did you- ?"  
  
"I'm thinking of moving to Paris permanently," he smiled then, a smile both wise and bemused, wistful and secretive, sympathetic and sarcastic. "We shall cross paths again soon, Asher Jacobs."  
  
She shot an arm out, touching her hand to his elbow. "You will tell no one you saw me?"  
  
"You have my word," Sam promised, and with a smile, he pivoted, disappearing into the Paris shadows. But when he had handed her the sword, Asher had noticed the small symbol tattooed to his wrist.  
  
Wondering, she walked home, having hid the now un-wrapped sword in the hidden pocket she had long ago fashioned, safely tucked inside the back lining of the sweater-coat. She found Richie still awake, sprawled on the couch, bottled beer and microwaved dinner on the coffee table, watching a James Bond movie. She smiled. A scene reminiscent of the first night she had stayed, the first night she had fallen in love.  
  
She smiled again, slipped out of the sweater-coat and shoes, curled next to Richie, stealing a bite of his dinner. He too smiled, pressed a kiss to her left temple.  
  
Meanwhile, two figures hurried through JFK airport to catch an airplane bound for Paris. 


	18. Love Lost, Love Found

April 14, 2005, 730AM, Le Blues Bar  
  
When Duncan arrived at the bar again the following morning, someone already waited for him. A tall, lanky Immortal of dark hair, he lounged against the front door, arms crossed against chest. "A sword, MacLeod? Is that any way to greet an old friend?" he smirked.  
  
"A bit early for you, isn't it, Adam?" Duncan mused, but he sheathed his sword again, and reached around Methos' middle to unlock the door.  
  
"I wanted to talk to you," he shrugged. "Alone," he added significantly.  
  
"So, no following lap dog with you this time? Decided Samuel Clarke had sniffed out enough details for our little scheme?"  
  
"I deserved that," he sighed, and Duncan was aware he had hurt the oldest Immortal. "But, no. He had other matters he needed to attend to. Gone, but not for good, just yet. I really do want to talk to you, Duncan."  
  
"So, talk," he chided, now with own arms crossed against his chest, but the use of his Christian name burnt his ears.  
  
Methos sighed again, (not his usual style), and raked a hand through his hair. "Sit, Duncan, please. You're making me nervous."  
  
Hesitantly, Duncan did as asked, perching on a barstool opposite of Methos' normal post. Two uses of his Christian name coming from Methos' lips in the past two minutes -this was serious.  
  
"I had hoped," continued Methos, but he cut his thought short. "Sam told me you are planning to sell the bar."  
  
"To Richie, I hope," nodded Duncan.  
  
"When I said what I did yesteryear, I did not mean for -why do this, MacLeod?"  
  
"I thought it time to choose. Yesterday, surrounded in death, I realized," his voice trailed. "It was no coincidence we ended up at Joe's grave."  
  
"Quite not. What did you realize?"  
  
"I realized -I suppose I always knew I loved you, but yesterday I knew I also needed you." Methos' posture visibly relaxed. "Damn you, Methos," swore Duncan. "You leave for seven bloody months, walk back in, and expect me to melt in your arms?"  
  
"You were doing a fairly good job there just a moment ago."  
  
"So, what do you propose we do now?"  
  
"Start anew," suggested Methos, as thought the suggestion was the most natural in the world. "With the free time we will have after you sell the bar, we shall travel the world together. Just you and me. Tell me, ever woken to the sight of the pyramids?"  
  
"Can't say that I have?"  
  
"Perfect. We leave in May," decided Methos, and he leaned in to steal a kiss. 


	19. Information Already Known

April 14, 2005, Le Blues Bar, 230 PM  
  
Nick and Amanda had arrived at the bar later that same afternoon, having only just arrived in Paris, to find a cheerful Richie manning the bar. "Mac, where is he?" demanded Nick.  
  
"He and Adam left about an hour ago. Said something about having to make up for lost time," grinned Richie, to which Amanda delightedly smiled. "Don't tell me you flew all the way to Paris in hopes of finding Mac? Couldn't you have called, like any sane person?"  
  
"I did. Ah, hell. I need a drink."  
  
"Of course. What can I get ya? Just re-stocked the shelves myself. Even have Mac's very hidden, very special rum out today." Richie smiled both mysteriously and mischievously.  
  
"Fine, fine. Give me some of that. Mixed with some cranberry."  
  
Richie did, handing the glass to the frazzled Nick, who immediately drank close to half. Richie merely raised an eyebrow. "Amanda? How are you? You the designated driver today?"  
  
"I'll have none of that, Richard," but she grinned as she chided him, leaning over the counter to hug Richie warmly. "Just some white wine, please."  
  
"Ah, some culture. A breeze of fresh air. Quite lovely this time of year." He poured the wine, spinning the glass stem in his hands a few times, before handing it over. "Full flavor that way," he explained.  
  
"Really?" to which Richie shrugged.  
  
"So, tell me, what was it that you needed to talk Duncan about, that you rushed here?"  
  
"Uh-just one thing, first, Rich? Duncan--? And, Adam--?" blinked Nick Wolfe.  
  
"We were surprised too."  
  
Nick swallowed the last of his drink. "But, Sam--?"  
  
"We know, Nick. Asher noticed the tattoo. They met last night. She to say good-bye, he to return her sword to her."  
  
"Does she know of the Watchers, Richie?" This time Amanda asked the question, as Nick was currently mouth agape, unable to speak.  
  
"She does now. I explained everything to her last night. After seeing the tattoo, I figured I might as well. We can trust her."  
  
"I know we can," muttered Nick, having found his voice again. "Asher is a great girl, Rich. Both for you, and in general, but that is not my primary concern. Sam Clarke is-"  
  
"A manipulating bastard?" asked a new voice. All three Immortals turned to the direction of the new 'buzz' as Asher entered the bar, cheeks flushed from cold spring air, bag of groceries in hand. "Hey, Richie, the had no merlot left. I bought a second bottle of cabernet."  
  
"You did fine. Thanks." Richie leaned in to kiss Asher as she came around behind the bar to drop the groceries behind the counter.  
  
"When did you two get in?" she asked, smile lighting her face, turning now to Nick and Amanda.  
  
"Just today," answered Amanda. "Would you believe Nick rushed all the way here, just to deliver some information on Nick? Information, it seems, you already know?"  
  
"Men," groaned Asher, to which the two women laughed.  
  
"As a man, I resent that," interrupted Nick.  
  
"Oh, shush, Nicky. You don't count," laughed Amanda, winking with Asher.  
  
"Ever get the feeling, Richie, that we are unappreciated?"  
  
"All the time, all the time."  
  
"So, what did you rush here to tell us?" Asher finally asked.  
  
"Eh, Watchers, hired investigator, blah, blah, blah. I'm more curious as to Mac and Adam, and why you needed to buy wine."  
  
"Going away party," explained Asher.  
  
"For Duncan and Adam?"  
  
"Nope," it was Richie, who answered. "For Mike. And Darcy. Mac's selling the bar, and both won't be returning with the new ownership."  
  
"Selling--? Good gods," Amanda lightly swore. "Leaving with Adam, is he?" To which Richie nodded, and said, 'Next Month.' "Who will the new owner be?"  
  
"He asked me, but nothing is definite yet."  
  
Nick Wolfe, tired from working three days straight, a trans-Atlantic flight, and the digestment of too much information, ordered another drink. Amanda calmly sipped her wine, chatting with Asher of what to do come summer, showing only mild surprise when Asher mentioned the worldwide tour Duncan and Adam would be embarking on.  
  
Only when Nick and Amanda left, to both sleep and 'sleep', and Asher and Richie were alone in the bar, (Mike having the day off, and Darcy being at the doctor's office), did they wonder really, just what the summer would bring, talking so aloud. 


	20. Isolophobia

Author's Note: The song 'Heart on my Sleeve' is written and sung by Idina Menzel from her album 'still I cannot be still.' I am only borrowing it.  
  
This is the concluding chapter of 'Isolophobia.' Stay tuned, for a threequel will soon be arriving.  
  
April 15, 2005, 11 PM, Le Blues Bar  
  
The party was full swing, so when Darcy came behind Asher somewhere close to eleven in a request to talk, a somewhat surprised Asher nodded. The party was being held at the bar, much to Duncan's dismay, and Darcy led Asher to the small alleyway behind the bar. She leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes downcast to her feet.  
  
"Lovely night, huh?" asked Asher.  
  
"Yeah. Lovely. Ash?"  
  
Asher let the shortened version of her name slide. "Yah?"  
  
"You know that doctor appointment today?" To which Asher nodded. "I'm pregnant."  
  
"Well, that's wonderful, isn't it?" Asher hugged her friend tightly, but Darcy did not return the gesture. "Is it not?" she repeated.  
  
"It is Mike's." Darcy still watched her feet, but she looked up now, to see Asher's curious glance. "I suspected since mid-February."  
  
"How far along?"  
  
"Four months. I just kept putting this off, not wanting it to be confirmed, but now," she trailed. "But it was, it is. I'm so young, Asher. I'm not ready for this. I have so many things I want to do, so many things I want to see first."  
  
"Shhh," comforted Asher, taking the now tearful Darcy into another hug, who clung to her. "It will be ok, it will be. I mean, sometimes the best things in life are unexpected, right?"  
  
Darcy managed a smile and nod, straightening herself again, wiping the tears from her cheeks. She knew Asher referred to Richie, and what they had together. "Yeah, I guess."  
  
"You going to be ok? Want me to come with you when you tell Mike?"  
  
"No. I'm a big girl, Asher. I can manage. Hells, I'm older than you!" To which the two girls and friends shared a smile. "But thanks."  
  
"Welcome." A thought dawned on Asher. "Hey, Darce, few days ago, when you told me you thought had fallen in love, was it Mike, you meant?"  
  
"Guilty?" she shrugged. "More of a charade, than anything else. I still hate him, but," she trailed again. "We should go back inside. It is half my party, and I would hate to miss it."  
  
"I'm here for you, Darcy, you know that, right?"  
  
"Always," to which Darcy reached over to squeeze Asher's hand, and together the two returned to the inside of the bar and party.  
  
Duncan was already at the podium, and he grinned when he saw Asher and Darcy step back inside. "Ah, there she is!" he announced.  
  
"Everything ok?" Richie whispered to her. Darcy had stepped away, Asher guessed to find Mike.  
  
"Everything is fine," she whispered, lightly kissing his cheek.  
  
"Without further ado," continued Duncan, "I present a certain talented young woman and her guitar. Ladies and gentlemen, I give to you, Asher Jacobs."  
  
Kissing Richie again, this time lightly on the lips, Asher took her place on the stage. She took her guitar in hand, smiled shyly, and announced, "I call this, 'Heart on my Sleeve.'  
  
She will never be invincible  
  
She will never be some Florence Nightingale  
  
Her threshold's invincible  
  
But she'll hang on like hell  
  
And yes she may be transparent  
  
Got no defenses to speak of  
  
But she'll stand here before you  
  
With no pride or prejudice  
  
Steadfast and certain  
  
That she'll land on her own two feet  
  
And you'll think you can break her  
  
Cause you think that she's crazy and weak  
  
But her power will defy you when  
  
She wears her heart on her sleeve  
  
Having found one another, standing side-by-side just behind the bar, Mike wondered just how he should go about proposing, and Darcy just wondered how she should tell him of the baby.  
  
She will never know your tranquility  
  
She will never learn how to just let things slide  
  
Her joy overwhelms her and  
  
Her sorrow won't subside  
  
And yes she may be transparent  
  
Got no defenses to speak of  
  
But she'll stand here before you  
  
With no pride or prejudice  
  
Steadfast and certain  
  
That she'll land on her own two feet  
  
And you'll think you can break her  
  
Cause you think that she's crazy and weak  
  
But her power will defy you when  
  
She wears her heart on her sleeve  
  
In the Immortal booth, two couple sat, one having only just recently found one another again, the other never having been lost, listened, calmly sipping their drinks, and understanding the truth of the words being sung.  
  
Oh you may condemn me  
  
Your bitter words untouchable rage  
  
And you may torment me cause I don't  
  
Lead my life in your way  
  
But I'll stand here before you  
  
With no pride or prejudice  
  
Steadfast and certain  
  
That I'll land on my own two feet  
  
You'll think you can break me  
  
Bring my head down to my knees  
  
But my power will defy you when  
  
I wear my heart on my sleeve  
  
Silently, with no words spoken or needed, Richie crossed the steps to the stage, pulled Asher into his arms, to kiss her. A kiss both equally tender and passionate. Kissing him, being warm in his embrace again, she didn't have the heart to tell him: she was isolophobic. Especially when it came to him. 


End file.
